Page 82 of Crown of Steel

Relieving the air in a big whoosh, I nod slowly. “Nathalie. She knows that something’s going on between us. I have one hour to show Nathalie that I’m serious about him.”

This time Louis’s brows rise up to his hairline. “O-kay? Explain.”

I tell him about the photo, of her implications, of the possible way out and I reiterate to him once more, why nothing further can happen between me and Régis. It’s because of who I am. Of the expectations others have of me.

“You could have both,” Louis mumbles, putting his finger exactly on the sore spot on my heart. “If you—”

“What? If I keep up our family’s reputation?”

“I was going to say, if you can handle our little s-brother. He’s going to need a lot of love.” My heartbeat picks up into a steady ruffle at that thought, my body clearly already having made up its mind. “I think that Dad already made a start with forbidden romance by marrying a homeless woman.” We both chuckle at that. “Your biggest challenge is Régis. You’ll need to convince him that you want him.” He lets out a cackle at that. “I still can’t believe it, man. You are always so fucking furious whenever he’s around.”

“Yeah, well I’m still not too keen on the whole thing.”

“Liar.” Louis claps me on my shoulder, then pushes me toward the door. “And a bad one. Now, let’s go grab that photo and enjoy today. The rest you’ll figure out as you go along.”

He looks sweet in that picture. Fuckingsweet.

My phone rings again and as I clumsily try to retrieve it from my suit pocket, I nearly stumble against the sink. Fuck whiskey.

I check the caller ID. And fuck, of all people, of course it’s Julien. I’ve got no time for that twink. If he’s got something to say, he can send a text message. Fumbling the phone away, I hear the guys laugh outside on the patio. Dad, my uncles, Gaël and Dominique, and Louis.

“Get your fucking act together,” I growl at my own reflection. My eyes are a little bloodshot and I make a face at myself. Clearly a lightweight.

Tucking the photo back in the inner pocket of my jacket that hangs loosely over my shoulders, I notice that the papillon is missing. I must have lost it somewhere before when we decided that the heated courtyard was the perfect spot to start a dance floor. My family isn’t anything if not known for throwing a party. Some of our business relatives stayed a bit longer, despite it being Christmas, and Dad went all the way in opening a few bottles of 2015 Petrus that must roughly cost over three hundred euros a bottle. When someone proposed to play a game of poker, I couldn’t refuse. Even won a few games. But when the whiskey got introduced…yeah, that doesn’t mix well with my structural lack of sleep.

Then Régis went upstairs, and for me everything went downhill.

“Arthur! Have you fallen asleep, my man?” Gaël calls, banging on the door, too loud. He’s clearly tipsy as well, judging by the way he grins at himself.

“I’m coming,” I growl, sounding way too irritated. I’m feeling cold and petulant, and I don’t want to be down here anymore. When I open the door of the bathroom, I catch sight of my cousin, who’s leaning by the wall, a vague stare in his green eyes. Yup, he’s drunk.

“Come on.” I grab him by his shoulder and he giggles like a girl when he leans in to me, stumbling over his own feet. “Let’s get to bed.”

Gaël yawns loudly, then falls into another fit of laughter that makes me chuckle, as we visibly suffer to climb the stairs.

“Paracetamols and water, coming up,” I hear from behind me. Dominique follows us up, and once we’ve reached the spacious hall on the first floor, he passes me a bottle of water and a strip of pills, before grabbing hold of his lover.

“Guest bedroom is in the right wing,” I say, the words sounding like a slur of consonants. Fuck, I’m definitely drunk. Without watching them leave, I wobble to my bedroom, where I chuck down half the bottle and two pills. Then I take a hot shower, that makes me feel both drowsy and a lot better.

By the time I am dressed in a pair of sweats and a shirt, it’s past one. Régis has gone to bed over an hour ago, so he’ll be asleep. I don’t care.

Creeping through the corridor, it doesn’t take me long to get to his bedroom in the far corner. Tucked away in safety just like he needs. The door’s unlocked when I turn the knob, and when it opens it shows me the sleeping silhouette of my little stepbrother. He’s curled up into a ball and has placed multiple pillows against the back of his frame to make the sleeping space even smaller. I carefully put them onto the ground, then slip in behind him, pressing my chest against his back, locking a leg over his thighs while my hands wrap around his slender waist.

And then I breathe in, deeply, allowing my mind to come to a stuttering halt. I fall asleep with the scent of eucalyptus and burning wood in my nostrils, with his firm, warm skin on my fingertips.

It’s a routine we pick up over the next few days. Much like the habit we started at college, we do our own thing during the day, only to find each other at night. Though something has definitely changed.

The picture I carry in my pocket.

Dad’s daily meetings that prepare me for life after graduation.

And then there are Régis’s daily trips. He goes back to Nîmes, I know he does. I fucking hate it, hate that he needs to go through this phase of confrontation with his past as part of his healing. Sometimes I wish I could cure him by simply cutting him open and taking out his hurt, bandaging the wound and stitching him back.

“I went to visit my grandparents grave with my mother,” he tells me one night, a few days after Christmas. “It feels familiar to walk around the streets of my own neighborhood.” He’s lying like a corkscrew around my limbs, chest touching mine, his head tucked under my armpit, leg sprawled over my legs, his arm spread across my torso where our hands are squeezed together.

“But does it feel good too?”

Looking up, he blows a strand out of his face, eying me on a shrug. “Good? I don’t know. It’s just familiar.”

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